


Don't Let Me Drown In My Regrets

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Nightmares, Podfic Welcome, Spoilers Up To Episode 129
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: Zolf has had nightmares ever since leaving Prague, dreams filled with regret and apologies. This time though, this time Hamid's here to comfort him.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan/Zolf Smith
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70





	Don't Let Me Drown In My Regrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kristsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristsune/gifts).



> Takes place in some nebulous time during episode 129, after Hamid and Azu's quarantine. (These characters sleep sometime, right?)
> 
> There's some body horror in the nightmare portion, but I don't feel like it's much more graphic than what the podcast itself gave us in episode 44. If you'd prefer to skip it, just scroll until you hit the line break.
> 
> For Kristsune, because this fic is entirely their fault. It's the best blame.

_This has already happened,_ Zolf thinks when he opens his eyes, the walls of the tank he’s in almost too close for comfort, the dull ache of the tube down his throat exactly as he remembers, the absence of both legs familiar to him. _This has already happened,_ he tells himself again as he manages to maneuver himself to the top of the tank, as he pulls the tube from his throat, coughing and retching. There are copper tubes in his arm, connected to something in the ceiling. _You have to remember that you’re dreaming. This has already—_ and then he sees Sasha laying on a table and his lucidity washes away like footprints on the sand during high tide.

She’s breathing, Zolf can see that from the top of the tank, can see her chest rising and falling. He can see her heart beating as well, because it’s _outside_ her body, suspended in some sort of glass apparatus. Next to that is liver, he thinks, hopefully still doing normal liver type things, also protected by glass. And there’s her kidneys, and that’s it, that’s all, and it’s all too much.

Zolf looks away, his gaze sliding over towards another table. Hamid’s there, his upper arm laid open down to the bone, and that’s fine, except it’s not, nothing’s fine, but it’s not worse than Sasha. It’s not worse than him. Both legs gone now. Both legs gone but that doesn’t matter, not now. Now all it means is a less than graceful landing when he heaves himself over the edge of the tank, the fall saving him the trouble of trying to get the tubes out of his arm, the most minor of mercies. With his legs gone he has to drag himself along the floor and it’s exhausting and it _doesn’t matter_ , because now he’s at the table, now he’s pulling a lever, now the table lowers.

He can see Sasha better now. There’s an incision down her torso, a neat, perfect Y, there’s tubes going into her and fluids going in and coming out (none of them are blue, and he doesn’t know why that fills him with relief), but that’s not what he stares at the most. He stares at her choppy black hair and her missing finger and the burn scars she got in Other London, the ones on her face and neck. He looks at Sasha as if he hasn’t them in years, thinks of her crooked smiles and the soft way she chuckles to herself and something in his heart twists with guilt and he doesn’t know why.

“Sorry,” Zolf says as he begins putting her back together, apologizing for the intrusion, for the way her heart beats in his hands as he places it back in the cradle of her chest. “Sorry,” he says as he disconnects the tubes leading into her. “Sorry,” he says as he places a hand over the incision, watches the flesh knit back together, leaving only a thin, pink scar behind. “Sasha, I’m so sor—“

There’s a pain in his side, cold and sudden and sharp, and his apology ends with a choked, startled gasp as he looks down at the dagger stuck between his ribs, at Sasha’s gloved hand on the hilt. When his gaze snaps back to hers, her eyes are open, eyes as dark and cold as shadows in winter.

“You left me,” Sasha says as she twists the dagger, and Zolf feels like he’s drowning, hears himself gasping to no avail, cold seawater trickling past his lips to land on Sasha’s chest. Underneath his hand her scar reopens, blood weeping from the incision. When she removes the dagger, the warm rush of blood he was expecting is cold, the smell of salt and the sea filling the room.

 _I’m sorry_ , Zolf tries to say, the only thing he _can_ say, but there is no air, no sound, just water pouring from his side, from his eyes, from his mouth.

“I needed you!” Sasha cries, and there are tears oozing from the corners of her eyes like thick, blue oil as the first of the blue veins branch out from her scar, so dark against her pale skin. “I needed you and you _left_!”

Zolf stagger-crawls back from the table, one hand going to his side where the ocean is pouring from him, quickly beginning to fill the room. He can feel the cold of it creeping up towards his chest as he gasps, looking for something to climb, looking for someone to save him. All the while his mouth moves, lips forming silent apologies.

“Zolf!” Hamid’s voice carries out over the water. He’s kneeling on the table he’d been laid out on, the rising tide lapping at his knees. The spiral scar (healed, when did his arm get healed?) nearly glows in the bright light coming from the ceiling as he reaches out for Zolf. “Zolf, over here!”

Zolf is swimming now, pulling himself through the freezing water, and he’s tired, he’s _so_ tired, so cold, but somehow he makes to where Hamid is kneeling, reaches out for Hamid’s outstretched hand— just as Hamid pulls it away.

“You left,” Hamid says, and Zolf watches as Hamid’s eyes become like that of a strangers, as the blue veins spread out from his scar and down his arm and up his shoulder like cracks in pottery. “We needed you and you left.”

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” Zolf manages to whisper as he begins to sink, as the sea rushes into him. Even as he drowns he can feel his lips still shaping the words. _I’m so sorry._

————

Zolf wakes up to the sound of someone crying, someone gasping for breath, someone saying his name in worried, familiar tones. It’s Hamid’s face he sees when he opens his eyes, and there’s a moment of panic and confusion, Zolf scrambling backwards until he’s pressed against the headboard because this has to be part of the nightmare, because Hamid is _gone_ , has been gone for over a year, lost in Rome, he can’t be here, it can’t be _him—_

 _“_ Zolf?” Hamid says a word, waves a hand, and a few glowing orbs appear, casting a gentle light. “Zolf, Zolf, it’s me, it’s Hamid. You were having a nightmare.”

There are no blue veins on Hamid that Zolf can see, not on his face or his chest were it peeks out from under his robe or on the backs of his hands when he reaches out to take Zolf’s own. Zolf grips them tightly. They’re warm. They’re _so_ warm, solid and real because Hamid is real, Hamid is _here_ , he remembers now. Hamid came _back._

 _“_ Hamid,” Zolf says, and it comes out as a gasp from a throat that feel rough and raw. He realizes that _he’s_ the one gasping, the one crying, the one whose hands are shaking, that Hamid is the steady one right now, the calm one.

“I’m here, Zolf.” Hamid’s thumbs trace slow, gentle circles on the backs of Zolf’s hands. Zolf concentrates on that, the sensation of skin on skin, of the warmth, hears his breathing begin to quiet, his frantically thudding heart begin to slow. “I’m here.”

The reassurance is good, the touch is good, but it’s not enough. Zolf gently tugs on Hamid’s hands, drawing him a fraction closer. “Can you—“ and it’s there when the words fail, because it’s something he’s never _asked_ for before, not even when he could have used it. _Especially_ when he could have used it.

“Can I…?” Hamid asks, confused, then understanding seems to dawn. “Oh,” he says softly, and pulls Zolf gently towards him. Zolf rests his forehead on Hamid’s shoulder and breathes a sigh of relief when he feels Hamid’s arms wrap around him. He’s warm, warm enough to help ease the cold ache of the nightmare that has settled into Zolf’s bones. “This?”

“Yeah,” Zolf whispers, wincing. In his nightmare he hadn’t been able to make a sound, but in reality he must have been screaming. It’s not the first time he’s woken up with tears streaming down his face and his throat raw. “I’m sorry.”

“You were yelling that,” Hamid tells him softly. “I woke up and you were yelling and for a moment…” Hamid trails off, his breath warm against Zolf’s neck. “It reminded me of Paris.”

Zolf remembers, of course he does. His dreams about Poseidon, Hamid rushing in after every one of them, trying to comfort him, holding Zolf as he had stared down at the legs Poseidon had given him, the legs that had been made from the sea. If he had just _let_ himself be comforted, how much of what had happened after would have changed? Maybe nothing, maybe not enough. But maybe…

“I’m sorry,” Zolf says again. Like his nightmares, it seems to be all he can say.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hamid’s voice is all care and concern. “You don’t have to,” he adds quickly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No, I—“ Zolf swallows, taking a few shaky breaths. The tears have stopped at least, a small mercy. “Keeping everything all bottled up isn’t good. You and Sasha taught me that, though it took a long time for the lesson to stick. Just— give me a moment.”

“Of course,” Hamid says gently. He keeps holding Zolf, and when the lights he had magicked into being go out a few moments later, he makes no move to recast them.

Zolf takes a deep breath, concentrating on the feeling of Hamid’s hands on his back, of the warmth of Hamid’s skin underneath his own hands, even through layers of fabric. It’s as if Hamid has become as warm as the desert he comes from, and Zolf wonders if he feels cold to Hamid, as cold as the mines, as cold as the ocean.

“After I— after I left you in Prague, I started having these dreams,” Zolf says quietly. “Sometimes it’d be the three of us crossing the ocean during the storm, or the cave-in under Notre Dame, or— or waking up after Mister Ceiling took us. Always you and me and Sasha. And the two of you would be angry at me for leaving you behind. Shouting at me. Leaving me to drown or get crushed by rocks or—“

“Zolf,” Hamid interrupts him before Zolf can say how the Mister Ceiling nightmare _usually_ tends to end, with Hamid holding him down while Sasha secures him to the table she’d been laid out on, cold, sharp instruments descending slowly from the ceiling towards him, that familiar, emotionless voice promising to ‘fix’ him. “Zolf, you— you have to know Sasha didn’t hold it against you for leaving, right? Sometimes I think she understood your decision better than I did.”

“What about you, Hamid?” Zolf lifts his head so he can look Hamid in the eye, then feels himself wanting to apologize for asking the question, for putting that wounded look on Hamid’s face.

“Of course I didn’t hold it against you,” Hamid says, and the hurt on his face bleeds through into his voice. “I—I missed you, though. I missed you a _lot_. Every day. I wished you had been there for— for so many things.”

“I don’t regret leaving,” Zolf tells him. “I couldn’t be the person I am now if I hadn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to help any of you, not the way I was. I just regret the fact that I couldn’t have been the person I am now from the start of things, so I wouldn’t have had to leave you at all.” He leans forward until he’s touching Hamid’s forehead with his own. “I missed you both. I wrote you letters. I never sent them, but I wrote them, even if most of them were just in my own head.”

“I sent you a letter,” Hamid says. “I guess you never received it, since you didn’t know about— about Prague. I— thought about writing you another one. When we were in Rome. I’d compose it in my head when I couldn’t sleep.” Hamid’s voice, already soft, drops to a whisper. “There wasn’t any time though, for all the things I wanted to say.”

Zolf thinks about the letters he had written late at night in his own mind, about the other dreams that had had left him shaking, his pillow wet with tears. Not nightmares, but still about regret all the same. The way things might have gone if circumstances had been different. Things he’d never said. Chances never taken. He had mourned when he had thought Hamid lost, mourned the lost chances, the lost choices. But here they are now, together, and when Zolf leans closer to Hamid, he only hopes that this choice won’t be something that either of them will look back on in regret.

“There’s time now,” Zolf says softly, and his lips brush Hamid’s with every word, almost a kiss.

 _“Yes,_ ” Hamid breathes. It’s only one word, but somehow it’s also _all_ words, all the words both of them have ever wanted to say to each other, the words both of them thought they’d never get to say. “ _Yes.”_

Later, Zolf won’t be able to remember which of them closed that tiny fraction of distance between them, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the way Hamid’s lips feel against his own, trembling and warm and _right_. What matters is the way they hold each other, as if both them are an anchor preventing the other one from being swept away. What matters is, when they wake up in the morning’s light, still tangled up in each other, neither of their eyes holds a single shadow of regret.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m angel-ascending over on Tumblr and angel_in_ink over on Twitter if y’all want to stop by and say hi!


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